


A Dusting of Petals

by tokii



Series: 壊れた方 [33]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 03:49:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21439744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokii/pseuds/tokii
Summary: Dazai pulls some strings and asks for a favor, one that transcends the grave.Tag: Dark Purple (Moderate)
Series: 壊れた方 [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542805





	A Dusting of Petals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophisthoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophisthoe/gifts).

A Dusting of Petals

“I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?” 

Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

There’s a hum in the air, he muses. A listless tune drifting on the breathing wind, brushing against the limbs of young Cherry Blossoms. Pink petals drip as paper ornaments, unfolding then fluttering on the hollow melody before dusting the headstones with a pale rose. It’s a somber etiquette, laying life at the feet of death. His cheek is kissed by a petal blown astray, its touch lingering on his skin before flitting away at the wind’s admonishment. He smiles softly, lifting his hand to stroke the tickle left in its place. The hum that rests over the aging stones, it is life’s passivity despite the finality of death. In this he finds a certain beauty, that the end can be had without celebration, or noise, or mourning. Death is simply another stone to be dusted with petals.

“Osamu Dazai?” Her voice rings out behind him, shrill and rasped by age.

His eyes fall closed, lips turning up easily. He leans his head back against the damp gravestone. There’s a twinge in her Japanese accent. Hearsay and favors, an arson of the Consulate General of Japan in St. Petersburg. Years spent searching for the woman whose gift was so coveted she was hidden from the world. Sheltered and protected… almost entirely. Dazai pushes himself to his feet, patting petals from his coattails. The wind whispers through his hair, citing her cautions. He has waited far too long for this moment.

“Sawako Ariyoshi,” he sings, turning toward her. He bows respectfully, deeply, “Thank you for coming.”

She sighs, petals falling about her dainty frame, her tired eyes drifting to the two glasses of whiskey resting on the weathered tombstone. “You’re aware of my gifting?” Her eyes flit back to him.

“Twilight Years,” he announces, folding his hands delicately behind his back. “You’re able to summon the dead, I hear.”

“For a time,” she nods, glancing at the headstone, hands fiddling impatiently at her navel. Her features are deeply lined by years, rings on an ancient tree that bear a cemented apathy, “I care for the quality of life near the end of one’s life. And if it ends with affairs left unsettled, I can give the dead time to fix the things they’ve left undone.” She pauses, hard gaze fixed on the stone planted beside him. “It’s been how long?” She asks, though she’s read and reread the date etched in the rock.

“Six years,” he smiles softly, a childlike sensitivity twitching on his lips. It veils the turmoil residing within him. No matter. He lowers his head, dark bangs falling to shield his face, “It’s been six years.”

She hesitates, lips puckering slightly at an inborn sourness, “I can give you twenty minutes. No more. It seems your friend had little left to tie him to this plane.” Ariyoshi’s cutting expression is nuanced with a deep sadness, and she tilts her head in Dazai’s direction. “He had little left other than you.” And she turns quietly, shuffling back down the flower path from which she came.

“I know,” Dazai whispers after her, lifting both glasses before leaning back against the cool stone. He holds one out to his left and looks over the river that flows beside the cemetery’s edge. “You’re an idiot, Odasaku.”

“You continue to remind me,” Oda clears his throat, tugging at his collar before taking the glass from Dazai’s hand. He leans against his gravestone beside Dazai, the falling Cherry Blossom petals littering the river water with pale flesh. “Here’s to Ariyoshi,” Oda grates, his voice low. They clink their glasses together, and Dazai tips his head to one side, lips slightly pursed in a contented wonderment. He watches his friend, waiting. Oda’s reservedness is familiar to him, his detachment a comfort. They had always preferred each other’s company, some days spent in utter silence. Oda stares absently at the raining petals, the dripping paper ornaments ticking as second hands, time dwindling with each breath of the wind.

“You heard?” Dazai’s voice raises slightly, lifting his drink to his lips.

Oda flicks his wrist up, tipping the whiskey to the back of his throat. “She asked me,” Oda sucks his teeth at the burning taste, pulling the glass away. He clears his throat, tilting the glass with pale fingers, the rounded ball of ice swiveling beneath the surface of the bronze spirit. “She asked what my one regret was, before I died.” Oda lifts his eyes to meet Dazai’s, pensively observing Dazai’s mellow smile. An inscrutable heaviness is worn just beneath Oda’s stubble, deepening the lining round his mouth. The hum in the cemetery can be heard once more in their silence. Oda exhales through his nose, “I told her I did not say farewell to my friend, to the man who was my only friend in the world.”

Dazai turns his face back toward the water, the moment of Oda’s death still stained on his hands, “Didn’t you say goodbye, though?”

“You embracing me while I died was not a farewell,” Oda sniffs, wiping his nose against his wrist. “It was hurried, and bloody. I would not have you remember our last moments in that way.” He swallows another mouthful of whiskey, clicking his tongue at its bitterness.

“Six years,” Dazai’s voice pitches at an odd note, sharp, like a key straining on an untuned piano. A petal alights on his fluffy bangs, tickling his forehead. But he pays it no mind. He waves his glass in the air, the masked smile returning, “Now you have your farewell, my friend.”

“Indeed.” The wind sighs, a fresh flourish of petals sent spinning through the air. “Have you tired of this world, yet?” Oda asks, gruffly. He licks the inside of his cheek, his head nodding along to a petal dancing at eye level. He isn’t waiting for Dazai’s answer, he doesn’t need to hear it. He asks anyway, “Are you still waiting for death, Dazai?”

Dazai breathes in the coolness on the air, batting his lashes lazily, “You told me, that day, that nothing in this world can fill that lonely hole I have.” He smirks into his glass, “I have tired of this world, Oda … but I’ve found some peace, at least, while death searches for me.”

“And are you a better man, Dazai?” His stern voice deepens, unconvinced by Dazai’s last response. His cheeks are hollowed with a conflicting sadness. His question settles in Dazai’s mind, Oda’s plea carrying on the hum over the graveyard.

Dazai’s smile fades, the mask torn from his lips. Oda’s words tear at him from within. “Like you said, people live to save themselves…” Dazai taps his finger against the crystal glass, condensation dribbling down to his wrist. “There is a boy… at the Detective Agency. An orphan. He’s a bit of an idiot; you would like him,” Dazai grins wistfully, noticing the petal that became tangled in his dark locks. “I’ve made him a protégé, of sorts, trying to convince him that he should live to save himself. But the kid’s stubborn, not thinking himself worthy enough to be alive. He values others, though,” Dazai nods, taking a sip from his glass. Delight inches on the corners of his lips, “I’ve started to care for the idiot, and for the people he values above himself. He makes me a little better as a man, at least.”

Dimples creep on Oda’s rugged cheeks, “An orphan, huh? What’s the kid’s name?” He breathes a chuckle into his glass before taking a swig of whiskey.

“Nakajima Atsushi,” Dazai mutters in annoyance, dropping his head to one shoulder, “He’s a pain in my ass.”

“I wouldn’t expect much else,” Oda sighs, shaking his head. He sets his glass down and pats Dazai on the back, his heavy hand lingering. “Keep an eye on him, for me. See that he doesn’t turn out like us.”

“A couple of drunks in a graveyard? Drowning in whiskey is a suicide method I would gladly settle for,” Dazai feels the shift in the air, a mournful sigh escaping his lungs. He lets his eyes flutter closed and raises his glass to the hum in the air. “The boy has to decide for himself. Atsushi too often looks for death.” Dazai takes another quick sip and sets his glass down on the tombstone at his back. “Death is the one event that can’t be reversed. For his sake, I will wait a bit longer for my own.” The warmth of Oda’s hand remains on his back. Endearment trickles onto Dazai’s pinched lips, child-like contentment softly spreading. His bangs bat against his forehead, reminding him of the petal that had become entangled in his hair. He tilts his head forward, coaxing the pink teardrop from his dark curls with gentle strokes. Its soft touch grazes his fingers before drifting aimlessly on the empty tune of the wind, floating at his side before settling into Oda’s glass. It swirls just at the surface of the liquor in an endless circle, undisturbed, beautiful. Death is similar, Dazai decides. The warmth and pressure of someone’s touch remain long after they’ve left you. Like the kiss of a petal. Death is lingering, gentle. Beautifully simple.

“Atsushi adopted a phrase recently, a mantra. He asks, ‘What’s better than being alive?’ I tend to speak my mind with him, but in this, I let my harbored thoughts lie where they’re buried. You know, Odasaku, as well as I do, that life is only good as long as you have someone to share it with… He challenges me, whenever he says this. Oda, I would say that death is far better than being alive.” Dazai’s masked smile eases onto his face, its softness sharpening the unrest in his hard-set gaze. The smile remains all the same, as if worn in the presence of life, and friends, and joy. “I would say death is far better because it has you, Odasaku. And when it finds me, I will welcome it, greeting it as an old friend. But I will continue what you asked me all those years ago - to save the weak, to protect the orphans. I’ll do some good, at least, until death reunites me with you.”

The hum settles once again over the aging stones, unpitied, its hollow song returning. The tune drifts on the breathing wind, easing between life and the absence of such, meandering above the unnatural slabs affixed to its domain. It brushes against the Cherry Blossoms, a reminder for the dripping youngsters, pink petals falling dutifully to dust the drinks left on Oda’s grave.


End file.
